they’re going to have to pick pieces of me out of the twisted metal. Bits of me scattered across a busy highway. Lights on ambulances flash.

No pulse.

No hope.

it doesn’t matter who I was or what I did.

Who love me or who I loved.

They’ll find out who I was. They’ll get a name, not a story. They’ll contact my mother.

Now I am just another accident. Cars full of wide eyed children and gawking adults crane their necks to catch a glimpse.

"Look at all that blood.”

I’ve become a number. A headline in a local paper. A conversation between people who never knew me, and hardly know each other but are trying to make light conversation while standing in line at a grocery.

But none of it matters now. They pack me up and clean up the mess. traffic roadblocks are removed, and life goes on. Scrape the last of me off the ground. And send me off. 

One time, all of my siblings had gone to my dad’s house, and it was just me and my mom. It was pretty late at night, almost 12:00 at night on a Friday. I was settled into bed, probably on the internet, when I hear a very faint voice coming from the living room.

At this point I immediately switch into survival mode, and very quietly make my way to the living room, which is only a short distance from my room. My heart is pounding in my head as I slowly open the door to the living room slightly, and peer out into the semi darkness to see if I can see anyone.

Nobody out there.

I still feel a little nervous.

The room is illuminated by the television that someone had left on, and as I slip into the room to go and turn it off, I hear the voice again, very faintly.

It sounds oddly familiar.

So I call out: “Is anybody there?” Hoping to get a response from my mother, perhaps beckoning me from her bedroom. But then I hear in response, very distinctly this time, the voice again: “It’s-a me, Mario!” 

Somebody had left the Wii on, after playing a video game, and it was just the main menu voices talking. 

I didn’t get murdered. 

red.

"You should wear blue. Everyone looks good in blue."

she took the silvery blue dress off the hanger and shoved it into my chest.

"Here, try this on." 

I hated it. 

the fabric was itchy and constricting, and the colour made me look pale and lifeless. I took it off as fast as I could and walked out of the dressing room. Angie stood leaning against one of the walls outside the dressing room picking at her acrylic nails. She looked up expectantly, but her interest flicked to anger as soon as she saw the dress in my hands and not on me. She threw her hands up in the air.

"What’s wrong with this one? Too flashy for you? Honestly Ariel.”

She sighed her why-must-I-carry-the-weight-of-the-world sighs and rolled her eyes dramatically. Folding her arms accross her chest, she stood threateningly, daggers for eyes, pointed at me.

I looked down at the hideous scrap of fabric. “It’s Itchy.” I mumbled, holding back tears.

"Oh, it’s itchy!” she said sarcastically. she stomped toward me with fuming bluster, and with one swift movement ,she snached the dress from my hands, and shoved it onto one of the shelves.

"We’re leaving. Guess you don’t really want to look good at prom. Your choice." 

As we left, I looked back through the sliding glass doors as they closed at the dress I really wanted.

It was red.

Just As it Rained, It Poured

I realized at some point he had taken my hand in his.

He looked into my eyes with such pain and despair, I could hardly look back into them. I knew he saw the shame in my eyes, and it destroyed me. He looked down and turned my hand upwards, tracing the blue veins in my wrist with a shaking finger. He slowly brought my hand up to his chin and kissed my palm gently, though It felt as if he had presses a lit cigarette into my hand instead. The sting of guilt, and the knowledge of what I had done overpowered me in that moment, and my shoulders began to shake; my stomach convulsed and twisted in pain. So much was I overcome with emotions that I began to sob uncontrollably, and I tore my hand away from his grasp. 

His eyes widened with terror and his heart rate monitor spiked, the beeping seeming to grow louder and more frantic, as he reached for my hand, arm, clothing, anything, but I backed away from his bed.

"Don’t leave," He said quietly. "DON’T LEAVE!" He screamed, thrashing against the buckles that held his limbs loosely down.

Three nurses streamed into the room, speaking fast and reaching into drawers and cabinets, while trying to hold him down.

I couldn’t take it anymore, “I”m sorry,” I whispered but my apology was lost in all the chaos. 

Two more nurses arrived and I slipped out. I ran down the hallway, my face wet with tears. I could still hear him screaming after me, as I escaped through the double doors of the hospital, and never looked back.

Rock, Paper, Scissors

When I was 13 years old, I was raped. 

I remember what happened quite vividly, though I would prefer to forget. I have tried, countless times, to block out the memory, but it’s always there. behind every laugh, and every smile, I can smell the stench of alochol on a dirty shirt, feel the sweat of a stranger on my skin. I can feel him watching me from the back of my mind, with that hungry intent, driven by the anger he felt. 

I remember all the moments leading up to that point: kissing my mother goodbye, skipping and humming-  thinking about the boy I liked who sat two people ahead of me in english- David. I imagined running my fingers though his curly, black hair, and kissing each of the light brown freckles on his face. I smiled and went to school, groaned about the homework, laughed with my friend Emily at lunch, and went to her house after school, to ride bikes and sneak her brother’s CD player to listen to music that we liked, but it had a lot of bad words in it. 

Then I walked home. By this time it was around 7:30-ish, and I was singing, quietly, one of the songs I had heard on the CD. I remember thinking to myself that my voice was pretty awful, and that I should never become a singer. It was eerily quiet, very few people out and about, but I was not a girl who was easily frightened. After all, I was 13 and invincible.

 I crossed the street, and ran into a large man who seemed to appear from the shadows, who smelled so awful I could only assume he was a homeless man. In the dim streetlight, I could not see him very well, but his hair was thin and tangled, his face, unshaven and seemed to have a thick layer of dirt encrusted into his face. He looked at my face with a strange look, almost like he was contemplating, calculating…

"Excuse me," I said trying to be poilite, side-stepping the frightening man, to continue on my way. 

Then he grabbed my arm. I cried out in terror and he covered my mouth with such a foul-smelling cloth, every breath was a struggle. My heart pounded in my head, and he shoved me back to an alleyway where he forced me onto the ground. I thrashed my arms and kicked my legs, cried and begged him just to let me go, but he only kicked me in the stomach and told me one more sound and he would kill me. He pulled from his deep coat pockets a rusty pair of scissors. I saw them gleam menacingly in the gray light filtering through the dusty alleyway. 

Then I realized it. He didn’t want to kill me. He would have killed me sooner. I came to the realization, and I lost all air from my lungs, all sight, hearing, and feeling was gone, and I crawled back into the tiniest part within me, to shield myself from the pain.

He would rape me. As soon as those words were processed within my head, that was the moment I accepted it. There was nothing I could do, but I tried anyway. My eyesight blurry from tears I struggled. I fought.

He reached for my zipper, I weakly pushed his hands away, and quietly whispered for him to stop. Please, I said. Please, please, stop.

He pulled my jeans down to my ankles, my underwear with it. I saw my flowery undergarments, the ones I had begged my mother not to buy, “because they are too childish”, I had decided. It was laundry day today, it was the only pair I had left.

I looked at his face- Into his eyes. he climbed on top of me, his pants gone. in that final moment, he looked at my face. He almost seemed apologetic, he looked at me with sorrow, pain, and pity.

"I’m sorry I’m doing this to you, but I have to, I just have to…" his eyes said, but then all the rage came back, and all of his apologies were nothing, this man stole from me, he ripped my innocence away, with no ceremonies or second-thought. With no regrets, he raped me.

And that was that.

dad, me and my dead mom

It’s like this.

My mom is dead, and I can’t bring her back. I’ve pleaded with God, or whoever is running things up there, to bring her back. I even tried screaming, bets, negotiations, and even threats, but nothing has worked, and she’s not coming back. There’s nothing I can do or say about it, and even though it destroys me, there’s nothing I can do. 

I see my friends who complain about their moms when they ground them or make them upset or disappointed, and all I can think about is how much I wish I had a mother to complain about. All I can do is lay in my bed and try to remember her- her smile, her smell, her eyes, but it seems to be slipping away, like i’m losing her, and i can’t remember it as vividly. then I start to cry because I’m scared i’ll forget, and if I forget her, then maybe she’ll forget me.

Everything is blurry, and undistinguishable. my dad is so depressed he hardly leaves his bedroom except for work. He shuffles like a zombie out the door, managing to barely get dressed, and somehow makes it home, throws his keys onto the counter and locks himself away in his room until dinner. He hardly sleeps… sometimes at night I hear him sobbing all the way from my room, and often I wonder if he hears my cries as clearly as I do for him…

diary entries of a “psycho”

I remember when I first saw you. I was just coming out of the anesthesia and you were leaning over my bedside adjusting my blankets. I even remember the first words you spoke to me:

"Glad to see you’re awake. I’ll go get your mother, she’s just outside in the hall."

and then you smiled that smile. 

 I kept needing to come back to the hospital for broken bones and bleeding extremities, when in fact I had just become so madly in love with you, that I was willing to put myself in  excruciating physical pain just to see you.

I caused those injuries to happen, to put it simply.

Needless to say, I’m glad my mother has very good and flexible insurance, because those bills sure did add up.

Some might think I’m crazy.

I call it love.

the truth.

i gave you hope

you gave me nothing

i drove you to suicide

and you told me to pull the trigger

i took back what i said

you took back what was yours 

you took away my freedom

I took away your soul

i burned our little house down

you spent our entire savings

i called you a liar

you called me a lunatic

i wanted to destroy

you wanted to build

i gave you fire

you gave me a concussion

consumed

 I could feel it in the air like a heavy fog that clogs your lungs and slowly suffocates you. You feel as though you have swallowed a wet towel and it is eternally lodged in your throat, and it never leaves.

you melt away down the slimy drains of greasy back alleyways and hand yourself over to the sudsy hands of cold, rotten men who tear you apart peice by peaice then leave you vulnerable and lost and shattered- when you are finally sober enough to see straight, you stumble down steamy corridors and across nappy lawns, like an escaped convict.

guilt-driven people wordlessly drop quarters at your feet like tokens of their regrets, and attach to those coins pieces of their remorse and discontent, not for your life- but for theirs.

you wander for days seeing mirages of the past and feel your life start to sway and tilt before it all topples over like an unstable house built on a sandy foundation in a high tide.

everything is washed out to sea and left there to drown and fade and corrode, the memories losing their grip and relevance, until those final moments where you finally just let the tears fall, instead of trying to wipe them back and hold them hostage in the tear ducts of your soul. you step closer to the edge of the eternal fiery pit of your life that seems to lack an end, and wonder out loud:  ”how will I ever get though this?” 

You tell yourself the options, the easy way outs, but somewhere in the deep crevices of insanity that ovetook your brain long ago, a small glimmer of hope shines like a speck of gold paint on a vast black asphalt. 

you cling to it, like the mast of a sailboat in a hurricane, and you close your eyes and take a step forward, launching yourself into the “afterwards”; slowly inching your way into the relief that comes after surviving a nightmare of a freakish life.

Even just being able to close your eyes at night starts to come as a relief and you can feel yourself again. It all comes back, slowly and painfully, but it does come back, and you will survive this.

close your eyes, you say, survive this moment, you say after every moment, and you grip to the truth.

A Grey Life

Everyday, millions of people are born. They are pushed out onto the stage of life against their will like understudies without their lines, and expected to act. They are forced to endure this life and the pains that come with it. Sometimes they find moments of happiness, but for the most part, they are unhappy, cold and alone. Some make the best of this cruel world, and try their best to find joy, belonging and hope, but some choose to destroy their fragile life with drugs, self harm, or even, in some cases, suicide. This is not the story of a man who did either one of those two things. he found no joy in the life he lived, nor found the need to destroy it. He was simply a man who did not live up to his dreams. He never reached any of his goals, he never felt success, he never won anything, never saw himself as anything special in the least. He was, like some people seem to be, a loser, a waste of air, and the worst of all, a failure.

From the moment he was old enough to form thoughts in his head, he became aware of his condition. He knew he would never amount to anything, and that his life would lead no-where. He tried to amount to something— anything, but all efforts were to no avail, and he just ended up feeling empty and tired and worthless. So he gave up, lived day to day without much of any change. A grey life.